NOVEMBER 7, 2021 – When I was circumnavigating the globe, there weren’t such things as smartphones or the public internet. For travel information I relied on a collection of guidebooks published by Lonely Planet. That name seemed inapt, for though I traveled alone, I never felt lonely—because I traveled alone and was therefore more likely to strike up conversations with strangers than if I’d had a traveling companion.
The books imparted practical advice, often with a dose of humor. At the end of each country-chapter were useful addresses and phone numbers, including for emergency medical care. For Italy, however, that information was omitted. Instead, the book said, “If you have a medical emergency in Italy, catch the next train to Switzerland.”
As I reflect on Lonely Planet 40 years later, however, I see validity in the name. In many ways, we’re a lonely species—alone in thought, alone in our individual woes, longings, anxieties, and sufferings. I think of a friend of mine who recently lost his wife suddenly—a kind, gentle, and generous soul; now the soulmate must press on alone . . . in dreadful loneliness. I think of another friend, one of enviable means and achievements, rendered as lonely as can be by an adult child’s unexplained drift into estrangement, then disappearance.
I remember my paternal grandfather’s loneliness after my grandmother died. Initially, I knew about it only because he’d say so out loud, as in, “Gosh I’m lonely.” I was too self-centered and lacking in empathy to understand that Grandpa’s “constant needs,” as my dad called them, weren’t needs as much as expressions of loneliness. Once sometime later when Dad snapped at Grandpa over the phone then hung up abruptly, my mother decided an emergency diplomatic mission was in order. She nabbed me on her way out the door, and a few minutes later (my parents had moved Grandpa from his house in Minneapolis to an apartment closer to us), we found Grandpa sitting on the side of his bed, sobbing furtively. I sat down beside him and put my arm around his bony shoulders. For the first time I knew what lonely meant and how empathy felt.
The pandemic gave us a lesson in loneliness—at least those of us who followed recommendations and avoided crowds.As my wife and I emerge from isolation, vaccinated but still cautious, I have newfound appreciation for noise—and cohesion—that society creates for itself in various forms and forums, from sports to concerts; theater to the theatre; school board meetings to religious congregations; Instagram accounts to Facebook feeds.
When I look at the stars, I feel lonely. If there are self-aware, empathetic, communicative lifeforms out there, they’re few and far—if at all—among the thousands of points of light in earth’s nighttime sky. That view and experience make me appreciate what we have here on planet earth: one another—all eight billion of us. If our planet is lonely, none of us who lives here needs to be lonely.
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© 2021 by Eric Nilsson
